


Benediction

by SOMNlARl



Series: Tumblr Prompts [9]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Cullen Rutherford, Crying, Dom!Dorian, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4267131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMNlARl/pseuds/SOMNlARl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Got this anon prompt on tumblr;</p><p> </p><p>  <b>I want to cry because it's not on the kink prompt list but Cullrian and praise kink pretty please?</b></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>Just three words.<p>Three simple words and <i>Maker’s breath</i> but he comes undone so easily. He unfurls, collapses like Dorian’s taken a knife to his flesh and let all the horror he carries inside of him spill out onto the floor beneath them. He’s torn apart at the seams - laid bare before his lover, all of his sins brought to light - and he shudders with something half pleasure, half fear as the words repeat.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>You’re so good.</i></p><p> </p><p>Cullen swells with pleasure at his words, smiles as the warmth of them pools in his stomach and spreads slowly through his veins. Distantly, lost somewhere in the dreamy haze of anticipation, there’s a flickering sense that he should feel ashamed, should apologize for craving this, <i>needing</i> this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benediction

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've written any purely self-indulgent porn. So here you go. 
> 
> tumblr: xhermionedanger. Feel free to come hang out or prompt me or whatever.

Just three words.

Three simple words and  _Maker’s breath_  but he comes undone so easily. He unfurls, collapses like Dorian’s taken a knife to his flesh and let all the horror he carries inside of him spill out onto the floor beneath them. He’s torn apart at the seams - laid bare before his lover, all of his sins brought to light - and he shudders with something half pleasure, half fear as the words repeat.

_You’re so good._

Cullen swells with pleasure at his words, smiles as the warmth of them pools in his stomach and spreads slowly through his veins. Distantly, lost somewhere in the dreamy haze of anticipation, there’s a flickering sense that he should feel ashamed, should apologize for craving this,  _needing_  this.

 _Good_.

What he wouldn’t give to be good. It’s all he’s ever wanted, all he’s ever worked towards and yet it’s the one thing he’s never achieved.

 _You’re so good_. Dorian whispers the words into the still night like a prayer and they hang above him; mocking, taunting.

He isn’t and he knows it with a desperate, keening wail and a biting ache deep in his bones that has nothing to do with the strips of torn silk binding him tightly and everything to do with the nightmares that tie him tighter still. He knows all too well what he’s done; he’s haunted by how much blood is on his hands that no amount of time or penance will ever wash away. He could scrub until his skin tore off layer by layer and it wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t take away the roiling nausea in the pit of his stomach, the reminder of all he had been and all he had done under the Order.

“Knees up, Amatus,” Dorian says, patting his shoulder softly - far more gently than he deserves - the mage’s other hand urging him forward to lie across his lap. It’s a dance he knows too well by now but still, Dorian never fails to issue an invitation. “Head here, come on.” At his urging Cullen moves into position slowly in an attempt not to struggle against his bonds, whimpering as his cheek brushes against the mage’s cock just beginning to stir with interest.  _Fuck_  how he wants it. He doesn’t deserve it. Dorian’s hand comes down hard across his buttocks with a stinging slap as the other trails softly up his back and he clamps his lips together, stifling a cry.

“Fuck…” he hisses, sucking in a breath. “Dorian that’s…”

Another swat of Dorian’s hand comes down, then another and another still and this time he can’t keep silent, moaning against Dorian’s thigh where his head rests, the fingers of Dorian’s other hand stroking softly but purposefully through his hair. It feels  _wonderful_ , too wonderful to accept and he wants to refuse it but he just can’t. He needs it desperately, this pleasure chasing pain.

“Dorian,  _please_.” He knows it comes out nothing but a whimper but he doesn’t mind; he shivers as he readies for the next blow but it doesn’t come even as he mouths the words he needs.

There’s the soft touch of a hand over his cheeks, smooth fingertips trailing across his skin and each touch  _burns_  even as Dorian softens his touch; stroking, caressing, each press of his lover’s hands against his skin a balm.

“Alright, Amatus?”

He nods. Heaving breaths that he can’t calm no matter how he tries; desperate, pleading as his back arches and curves into Dorian’s touch, pressing harder against his hands. He wants to say  _no_. He needs to say  _yes_. He doesn’t deserve to say either so he chokes out a soft, whimpered please and trusts that Dorian will know what to do.

_You’re so good, Amatus._

And now Dorian’s voice - thick and lush as fine brandy - caresses him, wraps him in rich, dulcet tones. His hands trail up Cullen’s back, kneading at the swells of his ass as they work up his spine, softening as the man rubs a thumb into his back where the knots always come to dwell. He can’t help but groan as Dorian’s fingers tease at the pain, untangling the knots of each inflamed nerve; exposing him, destroying him. If he were free he’d lower a hand to touch himself, circle his engorged cock and stroke himself off until the agony ends but his hands are secured behind him and he knows any attempt to struggle free will just bind him tighter. Dorian always saw to that.

He bucks futilely against the mage’s knee; desperate to gain friction against his leg, his hip, any part of his body but he finds nothing but empty air as Dorian laughs and holds him back.

“So greedy,” Dorian breathes as lips tease at his ear, teeth nipping at the curve of his jaw and he groans, aches with desire but only another smack against the top of his thighs is forthcoming. “Did I tell you to come yet?”  _No_  and  _fuck_  how he whimpers and begs for it. He squirms against the mattress; tries to escape the ever-present torment of Dorian’s hands and warm breath and skin and voice and  _oh Maker stop I can’t_  and he curls closer into the touch at the same time and  _Dorian, I’m so fucking sorry_.

He doesn’t speak the words; he can’t trust himself right now, reduced to ragged sobs that tear at his throat as one hand and then the next rains down on him, his body arching towards Dorian’s touch at each one; towards the redemption he can only hope to obtain.

“Fuck, Cullen. You’re so  _good_ ,” Dorian removes his hands and he knows that he whines and writhes at the loss of the mage’s touch, unfurls beneath him as far as the bonds will allow.

 _Please_? He doesn’t have any words left, his throat sore and his body spent. And there there are hands - Dorian’s soft, wonderful, nimble hands - wiping at tears he hadn’t realized were coming from his eyes, rolling down his cheeks and pooling at the swell of his lower lip; salty against his tongue.

Dorian has always known how to destroy him from the inside out.

_You’re so good._

Just those three words. That’s all it takes.

He wouldn’t have accepted them from anyone else. He isn’t good, couldn’t be. Good is something that’s escaped him since the first time he plunged his blade, trembling and terrified, into the neck of an apprentice warped and twisted into an abomination. Ever since he was left sick with fear, spitting out copper-tinged saliva, as his fellow Templars surrounded him with drunken congratulations and pats on the back, ready to celebrate his first Harrowing. Ever since he first tongued the familiar verses deep into the night; trembling, terrified.  _Traumatized_.

_It’s my fault. My fault. Please tell me that it’s my fault._

He wants the pain, craves it. He needs the reminder that this is all he’s ever been, all he ever will be; a sinner, worthy of nothing but the harshest punishment. And this is what he needs Dorian to be; an enforcer, a gaoler of one not fit to wield the Maker’s sword, to do his bidding.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as another strike lands, skin hot now, burning under Dorian’s touch. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Each syllable strangles in the back of his throat. “I’m so, so sorry.”

_Blessed are the peacekeepers._

_The Champions of the just._

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow_

_In their blood the Maker’s will is written._

He cries out as as Dorian’s hand strikes him again, even harder now. He must have spoken the words out loud, begged for release in the only way he knows how. It will definitely leave a mark tomorrow, leave him bruised and nearly unable to sit tomorrow and that’s just what he needs; a reminder of his sins, his transgressions. He’s grateful for it; Dorian always knows what he needs.

“That’s enough,” and at first it isn’t, it’s never enough. He growls in frustration as Dorian leans over to untie his wrists, rubbing deftly at the base of Cullen’s palms with his thumbs until he’s satisfied. Then his ankles and as he stretches - groaning as each joint cracks and quiets again - settling onto his stomach it is enough and he’s content. Dorian always knows.

“ _Venhedis_ , you are so good, Cullen,” Dorian breathes as he lowers his lips to Cullen’s back, pressing a line of soft yet somehow still insistent kisses up his spine. “The noises you make. Do you have any idea what you sound like? The way you moan and whimper, the way you beg for me?”

He nods, not trusting himself to words. Every inch of his body is screaming for it, desperate for more of Dorian’s touch but he doesn’t deserve it, shouldn’t receive his benediction at this altar.

“Look at me, Amatus.” Those same hands - Dorian’s hands - softly grasp onto his hips, slowly rolling him over onto his back as the mage comes to straddle his thighs.

He looks up into Dorian’s clear, probing grey eyes, horrified at what he might see there now that he’s been laid bare again but there’s only concern, affection, love.

“You’re  _beautiful_ ,” Dorian whispers as he lowers to bite a path of bruises from his collarbone up his neck. “Did you know that?”

Cullen makes a small noise that catches thick in the back of his throat and tries to turn his face into the waiting pillow as he hears the familiar pop of a cork but Dorian’s cupped his jaw in his hand before he can look away.

“Shy tonight, are we? Just look at you,” Dorian chuckles, voice dropping until it’s nothing but a gravelly purr that sends shivers up his spine. “Flushed and rumpled, absolutely disheveled. Such a beautiful mess you are, Amatus. So good and so perfect. And all for me.”

He gasps at the familiar, firm pressure against his entrance, snapping his hips as Dorian slides a finger inside him, teasing at first then deftly circling inside of him until Cullen relaxes enough to allow a second finger with a deep, throaty groan, head thrown back against the wall.

“Yes. Oh…  _fuck_  Dorian… More… please,” Cullen whimpers as he grinds up against his lover. “Need you… please.”

“Not yet,” Dorian growls and then his fingers crook into just the right spot and Cullen muffles a yelp into the mage’s collarbone, hot breath moaning his lover’s name into his skin.

He rolls his hips up, desperate to take in more of his lover but Dorian holds him back - continuing the slow, careful, teasing rhythm of his fingers , a deceptively strong hand against his hip.

“Legs up in the air, Amatus. And bend your knees.”

Cullen’s never been one to disobey an order and so he does, resting the backs of his calves across Dorian’s leanly muscled shoulders.

A third plunges in and  _Maker_  but it hurts despite the slick and how much he aches for Dorian inside of him. He grunts, covering his face with his hands. He whines as Dorian slides out of him, keening at the loss.

“Do I need to slow down, Amatus?” Dorian asks, voice dark and thick with concern. “Did I hurt you?”

He shakes his head softly and it is and isn’t a lie; it hurts but it’s exactly the pain he needs and he’s too desperate for it to care about the burn around the stretch.

Dorian slides into him again, thrusting his fingers harder and faster inside of him, working him open until he uncoils with a strangled sigh, bucking his hips desperately against Dorian’s thigh. And then there’s the blunt touch of Dorian’s cock against his entrance, his lover’s breath hot against his chest.

“Fuck me…” he whimpers, struggling against the press of Dorian’s shoulders on his calves pushing him back. “Please?”

He feels the hot, slick glide as Dorian eases into him. Slowly at first as he moans the mage’s name into his skin. And  _oh Maker’s breath_  it was almost too much, so much more than usual and he groans raggedly, curling back in on himself as Dorian stops at his apex.

“Fuck…” he breathes, knees shaking as he jerks his hips up off the bed.

“Oh, Amatus… you feel so  _good_. So good and tight.” Dorian moans as he thrusts again, quicker now, and smacks a hand against the side of the Cullen’s ass; cock twitching even as he thrusts deeper at the noises escaping the man.

He tenses as he buries himself inside his lover, pausing as he leans forward to tease at a dusky pink nipple with his teeth, relishing the cry it elicits from the blond.

“More,” Cullen pants, cheeks flushed, his curls slicked with sweat falling haphazardly across his forever and  _kaffas_  Dorian almost falls apart right then. “ _More_ , Dorian. Please?”

Dorian coils his fingers through the man’s hair, jerking his head up towards him to capture the blond’s lips in a rough, desperate kiss as he thrusts in deeper, fingers digging like claws into the soft skin of Cullen’s ass. The man answers with ragged, needy groans as he pushes against Dorian’s cock, taking him deeper with every thrust.

It’s too much and not enough and nothing and everything he needs all at once and Cullen fills with a white-hot pleasure that builds deep inside him until it could burn him from the inside out.

“Is this what you need?” Dorian asks with a low moan, reaching a still-slick hand around to slide slowly up Cullen’s length.

“Maker  _yes_ ,” he gasps, arching as Dorian presses against his prostate on the next thrust, sending paroxysms of pleasure through him as he rolls his hips slowly against the sensation. “Fuck yes… Dorian.. yes,  _please_. I need…”

Dorian pulls out with a snarl and slams back into him, again and again, keeping both the rhythm of his thrusts and the long, slow strokes up Cullen’s cock. “I know what you need,” he growls against the man’s chest, biting down on soft skin as Cullen cries out his name.

“Not the Maker anymore, is it?” He whispers menacingly, moving in tandem with his lover - faster and faster still - until they’re nothing but a pile of limbs, sweaty hands and bodies and the slap of skin against skin. “No Maker to soothe you, deliver you. Just me.”

“I don’t…” Cullen starts before breaking off in a cry, digging his nails into Dorian’s back as he pulls the mage closer to him. “Don’t need Him, Dorian… not now. Just you.”

“Then me,” Dorian growls as he raises up to kiss the man again, clashing his teeth hard against Cullen’s lips, biting and sucking until they’re bruised and swollen. Flushed and pretty and just the way he likes them, he thinks with satisfaction as he examines his handiwork. “You shall have.”

“Ugh, yes… fuck, Dorian. Please. I need you to… I need it to hurt.”

 _Vishante kaffas_  but the man’s begging always sends him over the edge and he thrusts deeper, snarling against Cullen’s neck as he leaps up to nip at Cullen’s earlobe, cock twitching inside the man at the yelp his teeth elicits.

Cullen bucks wildly against Dorian’s hips, the rhythm of their bodies completely lost as he shudders into his climax - biting his lip until he tastes blood but it’s still not enough to mask the desperate, broken moans wringing from him - sticky trails of come streaking across Dorian’s chest and across his stomach.

Dorian wasn’t far behind as he spills into him with a last desperate thrust; cock pulsing and twitching inside him as the mage shudders against his chest.

He whines as Dorian pulls out and sits up to reach for a waiting damp cloth. He aches at the loss and emptiness inside but it’s quickly replaced by a sigh of pleasure that springs from him unbidden as the mage leans over to clean him, tongue lapping at the hollows of his abdomen then the cloth trailing softly across his skin.

Dorian tends to both of them for a few minutes - the touch of his hands the sweetest balm - before he curls up behind Cullen, one hand teasing under the man’s waist as the other pulls the blanket over both of them. Cullen huffs a tired sigh, pressing back into the warmth of his lover’s body.

“Dorian?” He asks sleepily.

“Hmmmm?” Dorian hums softly, already half asleep.

“You’re so  _good_.”


End file.
